


The Gods Must Be Crazy

by Wordsmith_Storyweaver



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Psychological Trauma, Violence, mentions of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsmith_Storyweaver/pseuds/Wordsmith_Storyweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soul Mates AU/Matching Soul Mate Tattoos AU<br/>Set on Emma's 28th birthday; no curse, but much of Emma's past remains the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Greeks have a legend that says that in their perfect, original form humans were created as a curious looking being of two separate consciousnesses that shared a single soul. Their bodies possessed two heads, four arms, four legs… twice as many of everything necessary for life, except their singular spiritual essence. One day Zeus, fearing that his mortal creations would become strong enough to overthrow him as he had done to his own creators, struck out with his lightning bolts and ripped these fragile creatures in two and separated the soul-sharers from their other half. However Hera, jealous of Zeus’ many infidelities and paramours and eager to grow her own power, decided to bless certain numbers of the mortals with a special mark so that the broken souls could find and recognize their proper mates…

Sure, everyone knows the story, but having to explain a birthmark (in the form of a full-color peacock) to potential one-night-stands usually kills the night before anything good can happen. While Emma’s just trying to get laid, the other person is too busy running away and leaving her with the check because there’s no way in _hell_ a person with a Hera’s Brand is going to be satisfied with anything less than their “One True Love.”Neal had been the only guy to not actively freak the fuck out when he’d first seen it, but then he also ended up framing her for _their_ little larceny scheme. So holding her asshole ex up as an example of anything remotely positive just sticks in her craw.

The social services people initially assigned to her case had had a nightmare of a time trying to place a sweet, chubby, blue-eyed, bouncing baby girl…who just so happened to be sporting celestial ink. No one wanted a tatted tot in their annual family Christmas photo, thank you very much. If it had been small or maybe some place inconspicuous, that would be one thing. But with Emma Swan, the gods were either laughing or trying to give her soul mate a massive, shimmering sign as precisely to whom she belongs—and you can guess toward which possibility she’s leaning. Sure the metallic sheen over the brilliant purple and emerald and teal and sapphire hues is exquisite, breathtakingly beautiful; but it’s also impossible to hide when the partially-fanned tail wraps up her throat and curves to the left until just below her ear. She discovered quite early on that not even turtlenecks can hide everything, especially from bullies.

And unlike drunken mistakes or even suspicious moles, Hera’s Brand cannot be removed by any human means. Even if she found a doctor willing to ignore canon law and try to have it lazered off, the skin would heal back perfectly in a manner of minutes and the peacock’s colors would become even more vibrant, the details more intricate. She knows because while she was living on the streets, she once took shards from a broken bottle and scraped her throat raw and bloody. Apparently, the goddess in her divine wisdom hadn’t been pleased at Emma’s attempted rejection of her gift; not enough to let Emma catch something life-threatening, naturally, but the abnormally speedy healing had left her feeling itchy and sick for a month. And while she now has a healthy respect for the gods and their powers, it’s made her even more resistant to the possible truth of words like fate, destiny, and love.

* * *

 

Killian Jones cannot remember a time when his brother Liam hadn’t teased him mercilessly about his Hera’s Brand. Given that he was the bookish, retiring type to his older brother’s boisterous leader, it could have been a genuine source of discord between them; but the moment any of the other lads started in on Killian, Liam was also always ready to jump in and start breaking noses. Because trying to rationalize to young boys that the male of the peacock species was the more colorful of the two (as with most species of birds) in order to better attract feminine attention wouldn’t really work out for him until he joined the Navy. It shut up his mess mates pretty damn quick, especially when that particular line was delivered by a fetching non-Branded lass who then proceeded to drag Killian off with obvious intent in her eyes and the sway of her hips. Nothing had actually happened between them, but Ruby had bragged loud and long for the few remaining days of shore leave; they’d been best mates ever since, and he always makes sure to pay a call to her bar whenever he’s stateside.

Funny thing about his Brand though—it’s sort of changed over the years, as if reacting to its mate somehow. There was the time he’d been docked in Charleston, South Carolina not long after Liam had been killed in action. He’d ended up in the brig for drunk and disorderly, his mind and soul awash with pain when he’d felt a sharp, icy burn. If the agony of it hadn’t sobered him immediately, he’d have thought that he dreamed the whole thing. His blasted Brand started moving! Its tail feathers ruffled out as he’d seen in films of the birds, its stance indicating aggression, agitation, and readiness to attack (Did he mention a bookish, curious bent?). The blasted thing had then curled its long neck about his left pectoral, placing its head almost directly above where his heart beat. A piercing ache had filled his chest just before he blacked out. When he woke up, the Brand was still in its new location, tail feathers fanned left to right up across his chest and a shimmering, diamond tear falling from each of the eyes. His captain had looked askance at him the next morning, but said nothing.

He’s also noticed that the colors tend to fade or brighten depending on where he docks or where they get assigned. Nothing you can ever pin down until the moment he notices. Ruby has a theory that it’s like a celestial game of hot-or-cold: the closer he gets to his soul mate, the brighter the colors are. Her guess is as good as anyone’s really, because other than these damned Brands and the occasional smiting for flagrant breaking of canon law the gods aren’t exactly talking to their creatures much these days. All Killian knows for sure is that his soul mate better be worth the wait, because this bloody tattoo certainly hasn’t brought him much happiness in his life and the gods have allowed everyone he’s ever loved to die. He’s been alone and miserable for so long, so lost without his brother…Other than Ruby’s friendship, what he’s seen and experienced of the world has left him jaded or disgusted with humanity. When he finally and inevitably washes out and finally docks in Boston, his only reason for being there is because he’s never made port here before and he hopes the novelty of the place will break through his cloud of depression and _ennui_.


	2. Chapter 2

When she’d set up her fake dating profile—while similar to a real one, it only seemed to actually work when it came to locating and setting up trysts with bail-jumping scumbags--she’d purposely highlighted her Hera’s Brand in her photo. The one or two guys to show genuine interest in spite of her tattoo had ended up being all wrong for her romantically, but at least Graham had turned out to be a good friend and an in for her at the county Sheriff’s office. So when he passed along Ryan Abrams’ file to her—family man turned embezzler and insurance fraud—she hadn’t thought twice about going after him. She’d found the creep’s dating profile easily enough and set up a “date.” The fact that he was clearly planning on not only cheating on his poor wife, but leaving Mrs. Abrams and making her take financial responsibility for his crimes and raise their two daughters alone… As she’d gotten ready in her tight dress and heels, she’d been ready to go in for the kill (metaphorically), but didn’t feel the need to bring her gun.

* * *

 

When he’d gone in for an interview with a marine shipping company, he hadn’t expected the hiring manager to stoop so low as to ask him out on a date less than five minutes in… and imply that his employment status  _might_  just hang on whether or not he said yes.  Never mind that the ring on her left hand sported a diamond to rival the Matterhorn, or that her husband Vincent Gold was down the hall in his swank corner office; Milah held a chance at a fresh start for him in the palm of her perfectly moisturized and manicured hand, and he’d be damned if he let a lonely wife stand between him and stability. He agreed to go one the date, but he certainly didn’t plan on truly playing her game. And when he walked into the opulent bar of one of the finest eating establishments he’d ever seen, he most definitely was not expecting to get into a fight or rescue a genuine damsel in distress.

 

* * *

 

The tinkling shatter of crystal and the bone snap of fine china startles him and makes him turn away from Milah’s skull-splitting litany of grievances and perceived slights; but he’s hardly the only patron shocked or appalled to see a bloke dashing for the nearest exit and leaving an overturned table and a blonde woman in a figure-hugging pink dress in his wake. When he finally gets a good look at the seemingly jilted lady, his first impression is of sparking green fire and steely determination and he finds himself acutely aroused and fascinated. All before his eyed track downward and his mind locks in the image of the familiarly intricate whorls and lines of her Hera’s Brand. But the speed with which it all happens—and no doubt the lack of blood and oxygen in his brain—has him playing catch-up, and his volcanic temptress is already out the door before his legs finally heed the command to follow her. Mrs. Gold’s indignant squawks of protest go all but unheard and entirely unheeded as he finds himself rushing out into the chill October night.

At first his frantic searching yields nothing, but the furious honking of horns and the squealing of tires pulls his now terrified gaze out into the street. _Does the lass have no bloody sense of self-preservation?_ He begins to make his way down the sidewalk at a rapid click, while still politely excusing himself to the evening crowd, looking for the nearest crosswalk, and keeping track of his mate’s progress up and across the avenue. But the instant he watches her plant her feet near the front of a disabled car and sees the angry git from the restaurant step menacingly toward her, alarums start going off in his brain and he abandons his previous plan. Heedless of any oncoming traffic, he dodges between two parked cars and sprints across the crowded asphalt. And in one agonized moment when he reaches the middle of the street, his eye catches the unmistakable gleam of a blade in the man’s right hand. He roars in rage and terror and warning, drawing the gaze of the gathering gawkers and his mate’s would-be attacker; he sees the muscles in her back stiffen as she begins to turn toward a new possible threat, giving him just enough space to plow directly into her opponent and slam his whole body against the motionless car behind him.

* * *

 

Killian wakes with a start, wincing at the pain in his gut and the harsh tug of his monitor leads and IV needle. Even if it didn’t feel like his heart was attempting to beat its way out of his chest, the blaring screech of the alarms would let him know that something is definitely wrong. He feels (another?) crack of a hand across his face before his instincts kick in and he catches the wrist of his attacker mid-swing. He’s entirely unsurprised when he recognizes the blonde Amazon from the restaurant as the person who hit him. “You son of a bitch! I had him! Why would you—”

But suddenly his room is a hive of activity with a cop restraining his soul mate and a flock of nurses fluttering around his bed trying to take care of him. “Get your bloody hands off of my mate, you sodding git!”

To everyone else’s surprise he strips away the leads and hisses when he yanks out the IV needle— _damn, but that hurts a hell of a lot more than they make it look on TV shows!_ He staggers a bit, clearly intent on freeing his soul mate.

“She was upset and attacking you, you stupid wanker! She may want to gut you herself now that you’ve made it through surgery, but I’d’ve thought you’d appreciate not being assaulted twice in the same bloody night!”

“And I won’t press charges against you, so long as you take your hands--”

“Shut up! Both of you! I’m the only one allowed to be angry here! You, get back in that bed this second so you don’t tear your stitches and start bleeding all over the place again! And Graham, I appreciate your concern and that you stopped by, but you need to leave. Now!” Killian has no idea who this Graham guy is, but the look he directs towards Killian’s mate indicates that he feels he has some sort of claim on her; it has him seeing red, growling like a freaking wolf, and lunging toward the man who _still_ hasn’t taken his paws off of the blonde fury.

But apparently she has a point about pulled stitches because he doesn’t even come close to making it to them when the pain in his stomach has him doubling over and sliding gracelessly to the industrial-white tile floor.

When he wakes up again, he’s back in the bed attached to monitors and a bag of fluids, only this time he immediately looks for her and finds her curled up in the chair next to him. Her legs are tucked up underneath her at what must be an uncomfortable angle and she’s glaring at him. At least he knows now why he woke up this time—the force of judgment and pain in her gaze is palpable.

“You’re not going to hit me again?”

“I want to. I’ve been itching to slap you since you tackled my mark and got sliced up. At first I thought I was dealing with some idiot with outdated ideas of chivalry, but then I had to see your Brand and realize that you’re my idiot with outdated ideas of chivalry… I didn’t even know your name, didn’t even get to really look at the face of my soul mate until his eyes are glazed over in shock and he can’t form a coherent sentence.

“And then I had to rip your shirt off and hold it over a sizable gash in your stomach. You were bleeding out in the street, you were—are—my soul mate, and the only thing I knew in that moment was that you were going to leave me just like everyone else had left me.”

Instead of getting stronger and louder her voice grows softer and sadder, unshed tears and lonely, empty years of misery filling her eyes. The goddess destined them for each other, made them perfect matches for each other, and yet he feels like he’s already failed her. He struggles to sit up, and he can see the conflict in her body—part of her wanting to soothe and gentle him, try to keep him from hurting himself, and part of her tensing for his anger and rejection.

He extends his hand carefully, palm up. “It’s Killian, love. Killian Jones. And believe me, I know what it feels like to have everyone leave too.”

“ _Really_? Did you get left on the side of the road like a piece of garbage? Did you grow up without a family because of this freaking Hera’s Brand, because no one wanted to look at a little girl who had more ink than most sailors? Did you have foster parents who got their kicks by stubbing out cigarettes in the tattoo just to see what would happen?! Or did you get so sick of seeing it every day that you tried to scrape it off with a shard of glass in a back alley?”

Every word, every drop of pain and venom dripping into his ears spears him, but he doesn’t drop his hand. He keeps the anger from his voice, knowing that this is a time where she needs to know she’s not alone more than she needs to be put in her place. The rage is there, but beneath the surface and not directed at her. “Did you grow up with a family, thinking you were loved until the day your father left you all? Did your Mum waste away while you and your brother watched helpless? Did your brother who was also your best friend die serving a country that didn’t give a damn about him, or about you once you couldn’t bear living without him?”

The threatened tears finally spill from her eyes, and once more he can see her struggle not to give in to the urge to take his hand and comfort him. But a quick look at her and calculation in his head gives him a possible age for her and a theory. “Did your Brand ever burn and itch for no reason? Did it—did the peacock ever move, or change in anyway? And you couldn’t explain why, but every time it did, you felt like you would burn up inside from the pain of it all?”

Her mouth drops open, eyes still lock on him. “But when you finally stopped hurting, did you feel this tiny little flame burning inside you? Like a light that kept you warm and made you feel safe all of a sudden, even though you knew it couldn’t possibly be true? I saw your Brand in the restaurant and tried to run after you, because I knew that you had to be my soul mate; and when I caught up, all I could think was that he was going to take you away from me. I had finally seen my mate, and the second I found her, some arsehole with a knife was going to kill her right in front of me. And if I had to do it all over again, I’d do just the same—because I’ve lost too many people I care about to live in a world where you don’t exist.”

Her eyes drown in tears, streams of all her pent up emotions no longer dammed behind a tough façade. Oh, he knows that she’s got steel nerves and brass bollocks, but he also knows that she’s afraid and fragile; Hera put them both through the ringer, making them hardened to the world, but transparent to each other. Cautiously, gently, she places her hand in his, both palms and finger calloused yet soft. Her tremulous smile brings warmth and comfort to the bright, too white room. “Emma. Emma Swan. And how about we make a deal: that neither of us jumps in front of a bail skip’s shiv again, okay?”


End file.
